


Third Time's The Charm

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Third date. More upscale, definitely no big-screens.  'Cause the first two went well," Matt finished with a wiggle of his oversized brows, "and this is the one where you might get lucky."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time's The Charm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [persnickett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Snick! Love you lots. :)
> 
> * * *

No pressure.

John repeated the mantra on the drive to the restaurant, while meeting up with the kid out front, while the server sat them at a corner booth and took their food orders and headed off to fix their drinks. 

It wasn't helping.

The restaurant was all wrong. Subdued lighting, one of those tea-lights on the table. Not a goddamn television in the place, and they sure as hell didn't have Schlitz on tap. His shirt collar was too tight; the tie felt like a noose. What the hell was he thinking, wearing a fucking tie? He could feel sweat sliding slowly between his shoulder blades; wondered if he could unobtrusively snag one of the cloth napkins and manage to wipe his brow without it looking too obvious. 

This was a really bad idea.

"Nice place," the kid said.

John looked up sharply, eyes narrowed. But for once the kid didn't appear to be in sarcasm mode, despite the fact that it was the Matt Farrell default. No, Matt was actually looking around the place with what might possibly be approval. John felt his shoulders relax just a fraction.

"Never been inside," he answered as the server returned with their drinks. He reached for his pint of beer like a lifeline, even if it was some watered-down micro-brewery bullshit that would probably taste like weasel piss. He took a hearty swallow anyway.

Matt's eyebrows crawled up his forehead. "No? I thought maybe this was the place you take everybody on a third date."

It was only through a truly Herculean effort that John was able to stop from sputtering his tasteless brew all over the pristine white tablecloth and his dinner partner. His reply still came out entirely too raspy and choked for his liking. "What?"

Matt shrugged, oblivious to how close he'd come to a golden shower – and not the kind that landed Spellecci in prison after John spent six months and countless man-hours tracking the bastard and taking down his little video empire. 

"You know," Matt said, spreading his arms. "First date, coffee shop, casual, all that getting to know each other stuff. Except in our case most of that was already out of the way because I'd already seen you kick seventeen kinds of ass and you'd already seen me cry like a fanboy meeting Shatner. Second date, dinner at a sports bar. I'd have gone with pub, but I know you didn't want to miss the playoffs. And then third date. More upscale, definitely no big-screens. 'Cause the first two went well," Matt finished with a wiggle of his oversized brows, "and this is the one where you might get lucky."

John's fingers flexed on the glass as he mechanically raised it to his lips, swallowing another gulp of the unappealing lager while his mind struggled for an appropriate response. _Am I gonna get lucky_ seemed too over-eager; _pretty sure of yourself, kid_ too cocky. It didn't help that Matt's big brown eyes were sparkling with amusement or that the kid's tongue had crept out to swipe at his lower lip before he sipped at his own beer or that the only thing John could picture now was Matt Farrell spread out and writhing on his bed. John's throat was dry despite the liberal amount of beer he was shoveling down his gullet, and he coughed and went through another half dozen possible replies in his head before he settled on—

"What?"

For the first time Matt faltered, his brow creasing. "I… thought they went well," he said. "The other dates. Unless…" His eyes suddenly went wide, and he straightened in the booth. "Oh shit, is this the brush-off date? Am I gonna get that whole 'Sorry Matt, I really like you but you're waaay too obsessed with D&D and Kellogg's is not adding chemicals to their cereals to make kids hyperactive' speech? Because I'm telling you McClane, I have documented proof from one of the leading researchers – documented proof! – that there is an industry wide cereal conspiracy—"

John's lip twitched as he held up a hand. "This is not the brush-off date," he said.

"Oh," Matt said. "Okay." 

The kid relaxed back into his seat as the server returned with their orders, and John busied himself with picking up his fork and staring down at the mush on his plate so he didn't have to meet Matt's eyes. Because if it wasn't the brush-off date it was back to being the might-get-lucky date, and he'd rather face down a dozen of Gabriel's goons than make small talk over a meal with the possibility of first time sex with a guy lurking in the background. Maybe he ought to call in to the precinct, make sure they don't need him tonight. Might be a terrorist running down Fifth Avenue about now. Could be a diamond heist going on for all he knows. Hell, maybe they need some help with traffic control down at the Garden.

"That's good," Matt continued after a moment. "Because I kind of figured you were maybe trying to… impress me?"

He could answer that one with a raised brow while shoveling a forkful of food into his mouth.

Matt grinned, waved a hand at him over the table. "The tie," he clarified. "It's nice. Are those… squirrels?"

John scowled down at the noose. "Chipmunks," he said. 

"Aaah," Matt said. "Lucy?"

"Think she thought it was a joke," he answered with a shrug. "I like it. Got nothin' to do with making an impression," he lied.

"Okay," Matt said. "I'll give you a pass on the tie. But you ordered kale. And chick peas. In a salad."

John grimaced down at the sludge on his plate, stirred the unappetizing mound with the tip of his fork. This one was a lot harder to pass off. Okay, so maybe he was trying to show the kid that he was more well-rounded than the stereotypical New York cop. Maybe he was trying to expand his horizons. Maybe he was trying to prove that he could get behind this organic whole-foods bullshit. 

Maybe he shouldn't have flipped through Kowalski's copy of Cosmo.

He raised his eyes, tried a smirk. "I'm trying to eat healthy?"

"Uh huh," Matt said. "Do you even know what chick peas are?"

"Disgusting," John answered, letting the fork clatter to the plate. He raised a hand to summon the server, pushed the salad aside. "I'm ordering a steak," he said.

"Good call," Matt said before picking up his own fork and digging into his pasta. John's new order had arrived and he was halfway through his second beer and starting to feel confident that they might have safely navigated past most of the evening's awkwardness before the kid spoke again, so quietly that John could barely hear him. 

"I like meat," Matt murmured.

John paused with a forkful of medium rare sirloin halfway to his lips, eyes wide. "Jesus, kid," he groaned. 

Matt laughed around a mouthful of primavera. "You are too easy, McClane."

"Seems like I oughta be saying that about you," John said.

"Play your cards right," Matt agreed happily. 

John merely grunted, and when Matt pointed at his tie and started rambling about chipmunks being implanted with tracking devices in Central Park, he shook his head and let the kid's latest ridiculous theory wash over him. The words didn't matter, but Matt's enthusiasm did; the more the kid talked, the more John relaxed into the overly plush booth. By the time their dessert orders arrived John had loosened his top button and chucked the tie onto the table and Matt's hair was in disarray from the dozens of times he'd swept his hand through it in his fervor. 

This was them, he realized. One slightly over the hill cop who liked steak and potatoes and a cold Schlitz; one marginally paranoid hacker turned programmer who liked to hear himself talk. Neither of them had to change for the other. And whatever happened after tonight? Well, he just had to go with the flow.

No pressure.


End file.
